


hold you ’til I hold you right

by mimosaeyes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Episode Tag, Guilt, M/M, Self-Hatred, Trauma, parallels with 159, post-166
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosaeyes/pseuds/mimosaeyes
Summary: Martin’s love has always felt like an act of grace.Post-166. Jon and the weight of guilt.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 186





	hold you ’til I hold you right

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lost by Dermot Kennedy. Full lyric: I know you’d never leave me behind / But I am lost this time / Are we destined to burn or will we last the night? / I will hold you ’til I hold you right
> 
> Beta-ed by [animaginaryquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/animaginaryquill).

He should really get back to Martin. Usually, he goes as soon as he’s done recording — and doesn’t that just take the cake, that he can speak of _usually_ at the end of the world. As if vicariously experiencing other people’s worst nightmares is just a routine task he has to get through, another tourist attraction to take a snapshot of, then cross off the list.

It’s different, with Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe. He can still remember the feeling of walls pressing in on all sides, forcing him to scrape and squirm his way forward. It had gotten so tight in the coffin that he’d started picturing the layers of himself being shaved off, one by one, as he wormed his way deeper in. First there would be patches in his clothes, then in his skin, until the thing that finally reached Daisy would be red and raw, slippery with blood and exposed tissue. Like one of those muscular anatomy diagrams in a doctor’s office, or a squalling newborn going through a reverse birth, devolving as it returned to a subterranean womb.

He can’t quite shake off that memory of being entombed. He doesn’t like to think about it, but the domain of the Buried has forced him to. And maybe… maybe it’s only right that he relives his little sojourn. What better punishment for a killer whose weapon of choice is forcing torturers to feel what their victims felt?

_You have drawn out so much despair_ , he’d told the creature that masqueraded as Sasha James, _and now finally, it’s your turn._

He crumples, slowly, to the ground. The cold mud welcomes him even as he can feel it reluctantly buoy him up from sinking — wary of the eyes in the sky watching over their precious, broken messiah.

He curls in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest. The position narrows his field of vision to a thin strip of wet earth, and his scarred arms underneath it. His back is hunched and he can sense just where he’s missing those two floating ribs, so that one side feels tighter than the other. It’s uncomfortable. So he doesn’t move.

All the pain that’s been inflicted on this body against his will, and the one time he thinks a little psychic pain could have purpose, he’s walled out of it. The irony doesn’t escape him. There’s no penance for monsters. No absolution for the wretched.

He closes his eyes.

When he next opens them, Martin has found him.

“Jon,” he says, his voice urgent with worry. He’s kneeling in front of him, resting his hands on Jon’s arms with just enough pressure to recall him to himself. “Are you alright?”

_Fine_ , he considers replying. A well-worn lie. Or perhaps some honesty: _I’m not sure I have any right to be, after what I did._

No. He can’t say that. Because the other thing he doesn’t deserve is Martin, looking at him like this. Earnest and concerned and so, so kind.

Jon looks askance and pushes to his feet, shying away when Martin scrambles up too and offers him a hand. “What are you doing here?” Jon croaks. He clears his throat. “You have to stay away until— I might not have been done yet.”

“You are, though,” Martin points out. He frowns. “And you were taking so long, I thought…”

“That I was in trouble?” His lips twist into a bitter smile, which contorts further as he hears his own self-pitying tone. “It’s not like anything out here could hurt me.”

“I thought you might need help.” Martin dips his chin and stares at his feet. More quietly, he adds, “I thought you might be lost.”

Jon can’t help but flinch at the words. They’re exactly what he’d said when he found Martin in the Lonely. Only, Martin had deserved redemption. He’d sacrificed so much for Jon’s sake, and that was after Jon left him alone for some of the worst months of his life.

There’s a version of this conversation, he thinks, where he cracks a joke about how he can’t get lost; perks of being a post-apocalyptic Google, and all that. Then he would let Martin take his hand and lead him out of the Buried. Martin would start describing _Kill Bill_ for him, even though he could just Know it. He would act out all the best bits and Jon would feign grumpy-old-man confusion, because he loves when Martin gets all fond and exasperated explaining memes to him.

Helen had jokingly called them _avenging angels_ as she left, but Jon knows which part of that equation he makes up. Whereas Martin’s love has always felt like an act of grace, to him.

Feather-light, tenderly, he reaches out and trails his fingers along Martin’s cheek. He can’t bring himself to respond to the second thing Martin had said. Instead, he thinks about clemency; all the hundreds of times Martin has said or done exactly what Jon needed, and so much more than he deserved. He contemplates his own, burned hand, and how Martin leans into the touch anyway, cupping his hand over Jon’s and smiling that sad smile, the one Jon wishes he evoked less often.

“I’ve always needed you,” he says at last, and doesn’t add _more than you need me._

Martin’s smile grows beatific, like Jon has somehow managed to say the right thing. “I’ll always help you.”

It’s only then that Jon notices the spade lying in the dirt to one side of them. Reflexively, he recoils, grabbing Martin by the wrist and dragging him away too. “You weren’t digging, were you?” But there’s grit on his fingers. Jon actually feels the blood drain from his face. “Martin, tell me you weren’t digging.”

“Only a little — only to answer a phone,” Martin says. Jon’s panic redoubles, and Martin quickly continues, “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I just, I wanted to tell Annabelle Cane to bugger off already.”

Jon huffs at that, because he can’t manage a laugh. “What did she say?”

Martin shakes his head. “Nothing important,” he promises, leaning in to kiss Jon. He does it almost firmly, matter-of-fact, _there you are; I love you._ Despite everything.

“Come on. Let’s get you away from here.”

He pulls on Jon’s hand. Jon lets him. The best thing he can do for Martin is pretend it stops the thoughts. Wretched as he is, if it’ll keep Martin looking at him with kind eyes and salvation, Jon can pretend anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Available on tumblr [here](https://mimosaeyes.tumblr.com/post/617470239984238592/martins-love-has-always-felt-like-an-act-of).


End file.
